


Not American

by Salmon_I



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, Post-War, Revolutionary War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-25 21:51:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16668970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salmon_I/pseuds/Salmon_I
Summary: Alfred didn't follow her. Because it was too painful. Too similar and too different. He found himself wondering if rain was falling in London. And if Arthur was crying.After the end of the Revolutionary war, Young Alfred meets a young Tory Loyalist making her way north to Canada. As they travel together, they both are forced to face all over again how complex the war was, and the heartache it caused.





	Not American

_America, 1783_

  
"I am not an American!" The vehement words drew Alfred's attention.

Two of his soldiers were being faced down by a young woman in a glen not far from town. She was sighting down the length of a musket at them, a ragged traveling bag on the ground at her feet.

A few months earlier, or later, and he might have kept walking. Perhaps it was because the war was so newly over. He was tired of all the fighting. Perhaps it was because it was two of his soldiers against the one girl and - despite the musket - he couldn't help but feel sympathy for her. Or perhaps it was because her eyes had been just the right shade of green.

"What is going on?" He demanded.

The soldiers had started, but the girl only moved her eyes briefly to him before turning her gaze back to the soldiers. she didn't even attempt to reply first. "Well, you see, sir..." The men didn't know exactly who he was, but they knew he was someone important.

"This girl seemed suspicious. She was in town and -" The second soldier started when the first faltered.

"I was making my way north, minding my own affairs." The girl spoke up. The accent was almost, but not quite, British. Virginian, perhaps? Maybe Bostonian. "When these American," The word was insult in her mouth, "soldiers decided to try to prove how much charm they are lacking. I am not their dear heart, or their lovely. And I am most definitely not American."

"Watch how you talk, you damn Tory!" The first soldier snapped.

"Better a Tory than a Yankee!" The girl snarled back.

"We should-" The second soldier began.

"I'll take it from here." Alfred held up a hand.

"Sir?" The soldiers were startled.

"It's okay. Go back to camp."

"But-but-"

"That's an order." He was firm, but he wasn't angry.

"Yes, sir." The two saluted, glancing at the girl one more time before heading back toward the town.

Alfred watched them go before turning back to the girl, only to find the musket trained on him. "Say! That's not really necessary, is it?"

"I do not know what you are planning to do to me, Yankee. But you will find me rather uncooperative."

"I'm not planning to do anything to you!" Alfred insisted, holding up his hands to show he meant it.

She lowered the musket slowly. "You are suggesting you will simply let me go?"

"Exactly."

"Just like that."

"Yep."

"Why? Are you not afraid it will bring you trouble? Helping a Loyalist. A Tory."

Alfred winced slightly at her words. "I just...I'm tired of all the fighting."

"That is rather hypocritical coming from a rebel."

That sparked something in him. "We aren't rebels! This is our land!"

"It was my land too!" The girl shouted back. "It was a British colony, and I was - AM - proud of our heritage. Nobody asked me if I wanted this. Nobody asked Mrs. Harrison either. She had called this land home forty some odd years before the damn soldiers who burned her home to the ground were even born. But that did not count for anything, only that she had allowed "red coats" to stay the night. Tired of all the fighting, are you? You are the ones that started it all."

"There were reasons." Alfred protested. And, damn, if he hadn't felt like he was arguing with Arthur again. Trying to make him see reason before it was too late. Except it was too late now. The war had happened, and he'd won. So why was he arguing with someone that should have been one of his own people? "The taxes-"

"Oh, yes, the taxes. How horrible. I am certain the new government will have no taxes whatsoever." Sarcasm had dripped from her words.

Alfred flushed, embarrassed by her mocking. "It isn't that simple. We didn't have any representation. And the trade-"

"I don't want your excuses!" She interrupted. "It is too late now anyway. They do not even matter anymore. You won - Congratulations! I do no have to stay around and watch you rub it in our faces."

It was like arguing with Arthur. Exactly like it. Alfred began to feel the beginnings of a headache across his temple. "Is that why you're heading north?"

"Quite."

"You're heading to that colony?"

"Canada, yes."

"Who?"

"Never mind." The girl sighed. "Are you going to allow me to go?"

"Yes, of course." Alfred told her, and watched as she swung the musket onto her shoulder and picked up her bag.

"Well, then, Yankee Doodle-"

"It's Alfred. Alfred Jones."

"Yankee Doodle." the girl shot back. "I will be on my way."

"I'll come with you."

"You certainly will not."

"It's a long journey, you might need help."

"I do not need anything from a Yankee."

"Just in case you run into more soldiers." Alfred tried again. "I won't be a bother."

"You already are." The girl gritted her teeth, before turning on her heel. "Do as you like."

She started off, and Alfred hesitated only a moment before following her. He wasn't certain why he felt the need to look after her, but he did.

Under the circumstances, he felt a bit to blame for it all. He supposed he was. He believed he'd done the right thing, but that didn't erase the fact that his actions had led to the tearing apart of communities, friendships, and even families. Because not everyone who lived on his soil believed in what he'd created.

Centuries later, they'd have figures. Fifty thousand of who he might have called his own people had fled to Canada alone after the war. But they'd never be numbers to him. They'd be brown curls, a sure shot with a musket, and a pair of green eyes.

* * *

 

 

"I didn't catch your name." Alfred mentioned to her after they'd traveled in silence a short ways. Getting deeper into the wilderness, away from the smattering of towns.

"I did not give it." The girl retorted.

Alfred waited, but she said nothing more. "So, what is it?"

"Why would I give my name to a Yankee soldier?"

"I gave you mine."

"I never asked for it."

The silence returned, before he tried another approach. "I'll guess it then! Are you Anne?"

"I am not."

"How about Mary?"

"Are you always like this?"

"So it is Mary?"

"It is not."

"Eleanor?"

"No."

"Catherine?"

"How long do you intend to keep this up?"

"Josephine?"

It took him an hour to wear her down. She looked ready to take her musket to him at that point.

"Fiona?"

"It's Margaret!" She snapped.

"Margaret! I would have gotten there eventually." He'd offered her a grin. "Can I call you Meg?"

"No." Her tone brooked no argument.

"Okay. Margaret it is."

"Tell me the truth. You escaped from an asylum and stole that uniform from a dead body, correct?"

Alfred sobered, even though he knew she was jesting. "No."

"Then why are you following me?"

He could hardly tell her the real reason. Couldn't explain to her who he was. He searched for a reason to give her, and the words tumbled out so quickly he had to wonder if it was an excuse. Or if he was deluding himself. "You remind me of someone."

"I am not some Yankee-"

"They aren't a Yank-" He stopped, realizing he had almost fallen into her slang. "They aren't American."

Margaret stared at him. "Oh." For a moment there was sympathy in her eyes. But then there was a flash of pain, covered quickly by anger. "Well, that's your own damn fault. If they hate you and never want to see you again. You have no one to blame but yourself." She whirled away, storming ahead.

Alfred did not follow her right away. He stood very still, letting the words wash over him. He closed his eyes, taking in a painful breath. "I know."

 

* * *

 

 

He ended up following her anyway, realizing belatedly he'd forgotten to bring supplies of any kind. Margaret shot down a rabbit with an accuracy some of his soldiers were a far cry from. It seemed likely she wasn't going to share, even saying so loudly as she cooked the stew over the fire. His stomach grumbled in protest. But it was her fire, and her cooking pot, and he was busy thinking he hadn't brought a blanket.

The bowl of stew was practically shoved into his chest. "Here."

He stared at her in surprise, and she glared back until he took the bowl slowly. "Thank-you."

"Your grumbling stomach would have kept me up all night otherwise." She insisted, but he noted her cheeks were slightly flushed as she grabbed her own bowl.

She obviously hadn't brought spices with her. The stew was simple and bland. Alfred felt like he was back in a sunlit room, asking if the food on his plate was yummy. He told himself his throat was tightening out of dislike of the food. Memories had nothing to do with it. "It's good." He finally told her to end the silence between them. The silence let him think too much. And the stew was edible, so it wasn't a complete lie.

"Do not sass me, Yankee." Margaret frowned at him.

"No, really." Alfred insisted. "It's good."

"...thank-you."

"Where'd you learn to shoot? Your aim is really something." He was happy she was finally talking to him. Apparently he'd picked the wrong subject, though, because her spoon paused halfway to her mouth.

After a moment she forced the food in, chewing and swallowing deliberately. "My brother."

It was a wrong subject for both of them, he decided. Because instantly he thought of his own first lessons with a gun. Arthur instructing him, a small proud smile on his face when he finally got it right. "Oh."

"Papa died, you see. So it was all up to him to..." Margaret frowned, staring at the fire. "Mama died a few years later, so then it was just us. He had to work, of course. So I had to know how to look after myself. That's why...that's why I learned to hunt."

Alfred realized his grip on the bowl was too tight. Grateful it was wood, not glass - for if it had been it would have shattered already - he loosened his hold. "You must have been lonely. With him away so much."

"I was fine. I do not mind being alone."

"Where is he now?"

Margaret's jaw tightened. "I have not seen him since he went to join the fighting."

"Oh." He seemed to be saying that a lot. "He...he was among the Loyalist then?"

The bowls were empty now, and Margaret snatched his back, anger and hurt in her green eyes. "No. He fought for your people." With that she stormed back to the river to wash the bowls off.

Alfred didn't follow her. Because it was too painful. Too similar and too different. He found himself wondering if rain was falling in London. And if Arthur was crying.

* * *

 

 

"Tell me about her."

The sun was high in the sky, and they'd been traveling for awhile. Neither had spoken much since the previous evening.

"Her?" Alfred asked, confused. "Her who?"

Margaret gave him an annoyed look. "You said I reminded you of someone. Not an American."

Her saying American instead of Yankee was a small improvement at least, he decided. "I didn't say it was a girl."

"You are saying I reminded you of a boy?" Margaret's look was insulted.

"I didn't say you looked like a boy!"

"You...I look like..." Margaret stuttered. "You stupid Yankee! I certainly do not look like a boy!"

"I didn't say you looked like him!" Alfred shouted back. "Why do you take everything I say the wrong way?"

"I take it the...oh!" With a final noise of frustration, she stormed ahead.

"Say, wait!" Alfred jogged after her. "Will you listen? I was saying you didn't look like him. It wasn't how you look, it was how you act and speak. Your opinions. That was why you reminded me of him."

At first he wasn't certain she was listening at all, let alone if she would give him a response. But her footsteps began to slow. "He was a Loyalist?"

"...he was a British soldier."

Margaret looked at him with wide eyes. "How did you even know-"

"When I was younger he used to look after me. He was kind to me, but...times were changing. He didn't want to accept that."

"Things changed because you made them change." Her tone was accusing.

Alfred felt his hand clench. "Things were already changing. You can't turn back time."

"You didn't have to start a war."

"We tried everything else."

"Did you? Or is that just the excuse you use so you can sleep at night?"

"My people had rights-" He was too lost in the fight to realize his slip. That he'd said My people instead of Our people. But Margaret seemed too lost in the fight herself to understand what he'd meant by it.

"And what about us? what about people like me who were happy with things the way they were? What about our right to keep that?"

"The war's over you don't have to go anywhere."

"Yes, I can stay." Margaret's voice was hard. "So long as I throw away the heritage I've grown up with. So long as I swear loyalty to America and forget about the British blood in my veins. So long as I can stand to watch other Loyalist be degraded and hated for standing by what they believed in. Then I don't have to go anywhere."

"And if we'd lost?" Alfred challenged. "Then what? Then it would have been fine? Cuz it wouldn't have mattered what sort of hatred or punishment us "Yankees" would have had to endure - your brother among them!"

Margaret's eyes went wide, and tears began to form on her eyelashes. "Shut up!"

"I won't! You're so damn positive you have all the answers. You blame it all on me. I'm nothing more than a rebel and a traitor. But if you're okay with my people dying - some of whom you've known your whole life - then you're a traitor too!"

"I hate you!" Without thinking she bridged the gap between them, pounding her fists against his chest in bout of fury. "I hate you! I hate you!" A sob broke off her words, only for her to force more out. "I hate you! And I hate my brother! And I hate the soldiers who burned down poor Mrs Harrison's house! I hate all of you!" Her blows slackened, the sobs shaking her frame. "Why did you have to turn the world upside down? Why could you not let things be? You say you are right, and they say they are right! And nobody is right! Nobody is right cuz it is all wrong! It is wrong that we were forced to choose! And it is wrong...so wrong that in choosing we hate each other..." She backed away, covering her face with her hands.

Alfred stared at her for a long moment, before turning away. "We don't have to hate each other." Who was he speaking those words to, he wondered? The Loyalist in front of him, or the owner of another pair of green eyes, an ocean away?

"But we do..." Her broken words drew his attention back to her, but she kept her face covered and didn't look at him. "We do, cuz to not hate each other after everything...would be even more painful..."

To that, there was no words he could think of to say.

* * *

 

 

He couldn't answer why he stayed after that. Nor why she let him. It would take weeks, even months, to get to Canada. Especially on foot. The silence between them was a wall. There seemed to be no more to say. Not to each other. What words that were left were for someone that wasn't there anymore. Margaret would never see her brother again. And if he ever saw Arthur again, it would probably never be at a time or place to say anything.

It was a painful reminder that he'd lost as much as he'd gained. He was independent now, and his people could make of this land what they wanted. But the cost had been blood, and lives. Broken families and broken hearts. Wounds only time and forgiveness could heal. And as he followed silently behind Margaret, he wondered if there were some wounds that would never heal.

"I am meeting up with other Loyalists near the next town." Margaret said to him suddenly as they were nibbling on some food where they'd stopped for the afternoon meal. "It would be best for you if you do not follow me much further."

"We can stay together until the town at least, right?" He felt strangely reluctant to give up her company. Their time together had been nothing but fighting and painful memories, so he should have wanted an excuse to get away. Instead he felt like he was losing something again.

"I do not want the other Loyalists to see me with a Yankee."

The words were a fresh wound, and he looked away. "We'll part tomorrow morning then. Let's stay together one more night, at least."

"...yes, let us do that."

Her smile was sad, and her eyes were the right shade of green. Alfred realized, belatedly, how much of her was Arthur's. It didn't matter that she'd been born on his shores. Her heart and soul weren't with his lands. They were with the seas, and foggy moors, and dew covered hills that had always been in Arthur's eyes, and smile and touch. Having her near was like having a piece of his ex-caretaker nearby. He'd selfishly been clinging to a piece of what he'd already given away. "Tomorrow." He repeated.

* * *

 

 

He did not expect to be awakened the next morning by a kick to his stomach. His eyes shot open, but the cry of pain was stuck in his lungs. Unable to escape because he had no breath to give to it.

"Well, what do we have here?" He didn't recognize the faces of his attackers. There were three of them, and all were dressed in regular clothing.

"Looks like a Yankee Soldier to me."

The hatred in the second man's voice made his blood run cold. Margaret had said she was meeting other loyalist near the next town. It seemed they had found them first. Or him, rather. He saw no sign of Margaret in the camp. For a brief moment he wondered if the girl had betrayed him, but dismissed it just as quickly. If she'd wanted to betray him, she needn't have warned him the previous evening. She could have brought him with her to the other Loyalists and he'd have been none the wiser until it was too late.

He'd just gotten air back in his lungs when the third man delivered a vicious kick to his back. "Where is your pony, Yankee?" He hissed.

The first kick was followed by several more, and Alfred bit his lip to keep from crying out. all he had to do was gain his feet and he could overpower the three men with ease, but a part of him didn't want to fight. The fighting was supposed to be over, why were they attacking him?

"What, nothing to say?" The first spoke up again, delivering yet another kick to his side. "Not so smug about your victory now, are you?" He aimed for another kick, but the sound of a musket going off cracked across the glen like thunder. The man gave a scream as blood bloomed across his thigh where a bullet had hit him. He stumbled away.

With his other two attackers frozen, Alfred took the opportunity to grab one of their feet - throwing the man aside with a bit more force then he intended. He crumpled to the ground many feet away, the breath knocked out of him. His third attacker rolled away from him in a motion that told him he'd been a soldier, even if he were no longer dressed like one.

He was getting to his own feet when the two still on their feet brought their own muskets to bear on him. Another shot broke the morning air, and one of the men gave a cry as his gun was shot from his hand. Ignoring his companion's misfortune, the last attacker aimed and fired. Alfred was already throwing himself to one side, rolling to get to his feet. He barely had time to dodge the blade at the end of the musket as the man stabbed it at him.

He swung his arm to knock it aside, landing a punch to the man's face and sending him onto his back. The second reached for the fallen man's musket, but another rapport of his mysterious aid's gun hit his shoulder and he gave a cry - staggering back. With no immediate threat, Alfred grabbed up his uniform jacket and dove into the forest. The men cursed and shouted after him as he escaped, but were in no condition to follow.

He dodged forward, seeking a safe place, and - when a hand grabbed his arms - swung his arm in retaliation. He stopped it just short of a pair of green eyes he'd been growing too familiar with. "Margaret!"

She pressed her finger to her lips, and gave his arm a tug again. He found himself led to a cover of foliage. A group of men were rushing toward the scene of his flight. The two of them picked their way carefully in the opposite direction, avoiding another confrontation. He had felt the heat coming from the musket on her shoulder, and it left him with no doubts who had provided his cover fire.

They still seemed too close to where they'd been attacked when Margaret let him go and turned around to face him. "This is it." She told him slowly.

Alfred stared at her, confused. "What do you mean?"

Margaret sighed. "The town is only about an hour away. Faster if you run." She instructed. "You probably should - in case they try to follow."

"But what about you?"

Margaret's eyes looked dulled. "Those are some of the people I am meeting with. The main group is a bit farther north, probably. This is where our journey together ends. We agreed, remember? We would part ways this morning."

"But you just-"

"I could not let them hurt you, but that does not change anything."

None of it was making sense now. She's protected him from an attack, but she wasn't staying? "But-"

"Alfred." It was the first time she'd spoken his name. "I am not an American."

The words were worst than a physical blow. He sucked in a breath, feeling like he was drowning. "I don't want us to hate each other."

"So, come with me."

Alfred stared at her. "What?"

"Throw that away and come with me." She gestured to his military jacket.

"I...can't."

"You see? That was why I said it was more painful this way. Hating is nowhere near as painful as this."

"...Margaret."

"You had best go."

He hesitated, but then started to walk toward the direction she'd pointed. At the village he could get provisions, head back down to meet up with the unit he'd been traveling with. Or head back to Philadelphia even. He found himself pausing, though. Looking back, and noticing that she hadn't moved. He would never see her again after this. The wall between them was gone, though. And even if it was to the wrong person, there was something he wanted to say, because it was too similar to let it go unsaid. To not offer the words he knew they both needed. "He can't ever apologize. He can't, because it's what he believes was right. But he does regret that doing it hurt you."

For a moment he thought she would ignore him. Offer no reply, no closure. Then she spoke up one last time. "It may not seem like it now, because it's too soon for forgiveness. But...he still loves you."

And then there really was no more to say.

_Fini_

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope nobody finds this fic insulting. I stress that opinions of characters do not necessarily reflect my own. When I create a character, I strive to create them realistically and give them their own viewpoint and voice. Too many times I've seen writers gloss over the fact that the American Revolution was partly a civil war as well. Neighbors suddenly regarded each other as enemies, families were torn apart because some were for it and some weren't. 
> 
> Margaret is neither educated enough, or informed enough, to understand the things that led to the revolution. She's a simple average girl who's world was ripped apart by a revolution, and whose loyalty is to the losing side. More than that, though, I set up her history as a type of reverse reflection of Alfred's. And, yes, it is on purpose, so that the two can help each other come to terms with the emotional heartbreak of recent events.


End file.
